A Room Vith A View
by samvimes
Summary: The story of Vetinari's tour on the Grand Sneer, and a very memorable vampire.
1. Default Chapter

Good evenink, children of zer night. It iz I, zer Baron of Bad Taste,   
zer howlink volf of vordplay, zer --   
  
::cough:: Hallo, gentle readers. Just getting into the spirit of   
things. Come with me now, on a voyage to Uberwald, dark, mysterious,   
enigmatic, damp. Yes, that's right, I'm being dramatic because I'm   
terrified of writing this fanfic. I've wanted to since I first read The   
Fifth Elephant, but for some reason, never managed to get up the nerve.   
Now I have, and I find it veirdly allurink. Besides, it's about time  
I posted something that wasn't Vimes-centric.  
  
One small, one so-tiny Night Watch spoiler, really not a spoiler at all   
so much as a hint, an intimation...if you haven't read Night Watch, you   
won't even know you've been spoiled, it's so small.  
  
And a special thanks to Mary for beta-ing; she also gets credit for the  
second footnote, which very nearly made me choke with laughter.  
  
Enjoy.  
  
A Room Vith A View  
ch. 1  
  
"Hmm? Oh, she was a very...unusual lady but, alas, rather /older/   
than me," said Vetinari. "Much older, I have to say. But it was a   
long time ago. Life teaches us its small lessons and we move on."  
-- The Fifth Elephant  
  
It is very hard to surprise an Igor.  
  
One reason for this is that, while any individual Igor might be old or   
young, the parts he is made of might be antique, or so new that the   
shine* has barely worn off. Some organs, handed down through the years,   
could be quite old. Even if you hadn't seen everything, your eyes had.  
  
Another is that, generally, they take jobs with certain expectations.   
Igors are great fans of The Way Things Are Done. After all, it worked,   
didn't it? An Igor almost always survived the waving pitchforks or   
sudden shaft of sunlight. And in Uberwald -- at least, /this/   
Uberwald -- their employers stuck to certain conventions. 'Zer Castle'   
(crash of lightning) was always well marked, and as Otto Chriek liked   
to say, not all of zem scream.  
  
Otto had, in fact, just left zer castle. He'd been up to lend a book,   
and had stayed for -- ahem -- dinner, but then it began to rain really   
rather hard, and Otto did so like a good gothic carriage ride in the   
rain.   
  
Igor, whose cousin Igor was employed by Otto, thought that the vampire   
had probably left something behind, when the deep, resonant iron   
door-knocker was thumped hard on the old oak door. When he opened it,   
his hearts nearly failed.   
  
"Stay right where you are. Our carriage is broken down but I'm not   
having any of this children-of-the-night rubbish, and I'm quite well   
armed," said a tall, youngish man, sharply. He was drenched, black hair   
plastered to his scalp, coat hanging off of bony shoulders. One hand  
was extended in a warning gesture.   
  
Igor, recovering from the initial shock, blinked owlishly.   
  
"All I need is a spanner," the man continued. "If you do not have a   
spanner, a sledgehammer will be sufficient."  
  
"Thall I thee if Mithtreth ith in?" Igor asked hopefully. This was not   
according to the script.   
  
"Does Mistress have a spanner?" the young man asked.  
  
"We have roomth for the night, if you are tired travelerth in thearch   
of thuccor," Igor continued.  
  
"None of that now!" the man said sharply. "I know all about Uberwaldean   
hospitality. I don't want any trouble. I merely want some tools to   
repair the carriage with."  
  
"It'th raining out. Do come inthide."  
  
"No."  
  
They stared at each other for a moment. Then there was an impatient   
noise from behind the young man.  
  
"It's pissing down, Havelock. Can't hurt to go in. Just for a few   
minutes," a whining, nasal voice said. A second young man emerged from   
the damp gloom. "Charles Selachii," he said, holding out his hand   
before he'd fully seen who he was speaking to. Igor regarded it   
professionally.  
  
"Oh yeth. Quite nithe fingerth," he said. "Good writht boneth, too."  
  
"Gods give me /strength/," the dark-haired young man -- apparently   
called Havelock -- murmured. "Have you learned nothing about Uberwald,   
Selachii?"  
  
"I know this is a nice warm castle and you're being a stubborn fool,"   
Selachii replied. Havelock favored him with an icy scowl. Igor could   
now see a huddle of people behind the two men; four more, at least.   
Havelock turned back to Igor.  
  
"Look, do you have the spanner or don't you?" he asked.  
  
"I don't think we do, thur. Perhapth the gardener doeth, but he'th -- "  
  
"Away for the week-end? How convenient. Fine, fine. Go on ahead,   
Charles. The rest of you too," Havelock said with a sigh. "I'll   
straighten things out."  
  
"I don't see who died and made you Patrician," Selachii said. "I'm the   
eldest."  
  
"And I am the one who did /not/ burst into tears because we were   
stranded in the middle of nowhere with a broken cart-wheel," Havelock   
replied calmly. "Do watch your step, Alice."  
  
This to a horse-faced young woman who gaped, touched her breast   
theatrically, and nearly fainted when she saw Igor.   
  
"What is it?" one of the others asked.  
  
"Igor, madam," Igor replied calmly. "I'll fetch the mithtreth. Thith   
way, gentlemen, ladieth."  
  
***  
  
What a crew, Havelock thought to himself, as the others shed their   
coats and began to spread out around the tastefully decorated drawing   
room. Well, not really 'spread out'; more like 'hunch up'. The women   
settled themselves on the couch in front of the fireplace, where a   
small flame crackled merrily; the men took up nonchalant posts on   
either side of it, leaning on the mantle, trying to pretend they   
weren't just as desperate for the warmth.   
  
Havelock preferred to stay by the bookcase, across the room. He had   
seen copper piping running up the outside of the castle as they trooped   
up to it, and assumed, correctly, that this meant that the rooms were   
heated centrally by thermal springs underneath it. He had found the   
warm draft, and stood in it, drying quickly.  
  
Of all the people Aunt Roberta could have picked for him to travel   
with, he wondered why she'd picked these five. Charles Selachii was   
supposed to be the chaperone on their Grand Sneer, but he was causing   
more trouble than he was worth, since he tended to assume that Foreign   
equals Stupid and liked to steal the towels from their lodgings.   
Havelock knew that there was no bigger petty criminal than a rich young   
man, but this was taking things a bit far.   
  
Cyril de Worde was an arrogant, speciesist bastard who was taking the   
'sneer' part of their tour a bit too seriously. Alice Venturi and   
Sara*** Selachii were on opposite sides of an inter-family feud, and   
therefore took every opportunity to be coldly polite to each other.   
Sybil Ramkin wasn't too bad, as people went, but Havelock couldn't look   
at her without being reminded of the moment when old Lord Ramkin pulled   
him aside and offered to murder him painfully if any harm came to his   
little girl. Harm, according to Ramkin, included the attentions of That   
Bastard Selachii or de Worde The Weasel. Apparently, Havelock was the   
least of the three evils.   
  
It couldn't be more than a mile to Bonk, where they were supposed to   
lodge for the night with Serafine von Uberwald and her new husband, the   
Baron. The girls had been at school with Serafine, and apparently Cyril   
had courted her until he found out she was a werewolf. Havelock could   
not /wait/ for the experience of dinner with the Baron.   
  
If they ever got out of this castle.   
  
He took down one of the books and opened it, searching for information.   
Near the fire, the others made quiet conversation. He saw that   
dependable, sensible Sybil had hung her coat by the fire, instead of   
tossing it on the coat-rack like the others.  
  
He didn't move when Igor suddenly stood at his elbow; it was more   
difficult than one might think. Igors prided themselves on their   
ability to appear suddenly from nowhere.  
  
"Tea, thurs and madamth?" Igor asked, passing him and setting a tray   
down near the others. "I can provide bithcuitth. There ith brandy, if   
you prefer, or Uberwaldian vodka."  
  
"What's in that, then?" Selachii asked.   
  
"Grains," Igor replied. "Mothtly."  
  
"I could go a spot of brandy," Selachii said thoughtfully, pouring from   
the decanter on Igor's tray once he'd served the women with tea. "Cyril?   
Havelock?"  
  
"None for me, thank you," Havelock answered. He put the book away, and   
joined the others around the fire.   
  
Cyril was looking in fascinated disgust at Igor. At least he had better   
sense than to speak; Charles would have asked 'what are you?', as his   
sister Sara had, but Cyril merely stared. 'Le mot juste' was the de   
Worde motto; 'the right word in the right place' was how Cyril translated   
it, choosing circumspection over inquiry.   
  
Havelock, who had done rather better in languages than Cyril, thought   
it ironic that the real translation referred to fairness in no small   
way.  
  
"Mithtreth will be down thortly," Igor said. When he pronounced   
'Mithtreth', there was a flash of lightning through the windows. High,   
small windows, Havelock noticed, with heavy curtains, easily drawn.  
  
"I say, these biscuits are rather good," Alice announced. "Do try one,   
Havelock."  
  
He gave her a withering stare. Alice was looking for a potential   
husband, and she'd apparently settled on him until something better   
came along. It was a good stare, one he'd practiced on several Ankh-  
Morpork street cats. He was only really getting into it when there was   
a discreet cough from the direction of the hallway.  
  
The Mistress of the castle was still many years from beetotalism, and   
the grandmotherly getup which it inspired. Now she stood, tall and pale   
and beautiful, in the doorway. She had long dark hair, braided elegantly,   
and her dress was...well, calling it 'revealing' would have cheapened   
the experience, but Cyril could have told you that 'respectable' was   
definitely not the mot juste. It was the way the deep black fabric clung   
to her hips. And other parts.   
  
"Good evening," she said, inclining her head regally as the women rose   
to curtsey, and the men bowed. Her Morporkian was excellent. "I   
apologise I could not greet you sooner. I am -- "  
  
"Lady Margolotta Amaya Katerina Assumpta Crassina von Uberwald,"   
Havelock said. "In the short form. I believe."  
  
The Mistress -- as well as the rest of the castaways -- regarded him   
curiously.  
  
"I prefer simply 'Lady Margolotta'," she said. "So much more elegant.   
And you are...?"  
  
"Havelock Vetinari."  
  
"Vot an unusual name."  
  
Havelock raised an eyebrow. "It's ancestral."  
  
"No doubt. Vill you introduce me then, Havelock Vetinari, to your   
travelink companions?"  
  
"Charles Selachii and Cyril de Worde, you see there; Charles' sister  
Sara, Sybil Ramkin, and Alice Venturi," he said. Alice would take   
issue with being last, but he would deal with that later.   
  
"You muszt be from Ankh-Morpork," Lady Margolotta said with a smile.   
Havelock noticed she didn't show her teeth. "Travelers on the Grand   
Sneer, perhaps?"  
  
"Only our carriage broke down, and the driver ran off -- " Alice began.   
Lady Margolotta held up a hand.  
  
"Yes, I have heard this story before. Many times, I have told Igor to   
patch zer hole in zer road, but vot can you do? It's this blasted rain   
ve get," she said. Havelock detected the touch of a master liar. "Ve   
are vell used to bedraggled visitors, here at zer castle. I am sure   
that even as ve speak, Igor is preparing rooms for you all."  
  
"That won't be necessary," said Havelock sharply. "If you can provide   
us with -- "  
  
"Do lay off the spanner, Havelock," Cyril said. "I for one don't want   
to troop back down to the carriage in the rain. Besides, it's not as   
though it's ours. And hard luck to the driver, if he runs off at the   
first little sign of trouble, he doesn't deserve to keep it."  
  
"Our luggage is down there," Sybil pointed out.   
  
"Igor has dispatched a man to fetch it," Margolotta said smoothly. "He   
iz such a treasure. I think you should listen to your friends, Mister   
Vetinari."  
  
Havelock was a smart enough man to know when to retire gracefully. He   
looked to the women; Sara and Alice -- and Charles, for that matter --   
looked frightened. Sybil's jaw was set, but he could see that she was   
indecisive. Cyril was watching him.   
  
"We will reimburse you for the expense," he said finally. "Regular inn   
rates."  
  
Margolotta smiled. "I vouldn't dream of taking your money," she said.   
Havelock lowered his voice so that the others, several feet away,   
couldn't hear.   
  
"What exactly /would/ you dream of taking?" he asked.  
  
Margolotta laughed. "You are a joker, Mister Vetinari! I treasure a   
person who can make me laugh. Come in to dinner."  
  
Havelock thought that the invitation could have been phrased better.   
He caught Sybil's arm as she passed. The others continued on, led by   
Lady Margolotta, who was explaining the origin of some object d'art   
in the hallway.  
  
"Sybil, I want you to keep an eye on the other two," he said, in an   
urgent, low voice. "If we stay here tonight, she's going to put the   
women in one wing and the men in another. You keep an eye on Alice and   
Sara, all right?"  
  
"Yes, of course, but..." Sybil was a woman who believed the best of   
everyone. He'd nearly forgotten.  
  
"Let's just say I don't trust her ladyship. Please, Sybil."  
  
"All right, Havelock. Don't worry so much," she said. "Besides, I   
think you've scared her. How'd you know her name?"  
  
"She's got bookplates," he said. Sybil stifled a laugh.  
  
***  
  
The meal was obviously assembled in haste, from what happened to be   
about. There was sclott, which seemed to be bread, and elderly butter;   
a strange sort of soup with sausages in it; cold mutton, and liver,   
served by Igor, which nobody touched.   
  
Lady Margolotta was a good hostess, as far as entertainment went. She   
kept them talking about themselves, their travels and their home; she   
urged them to visit several interesting historical sites in Bonk, and   
offered them the use of her carriage for the trip into town the next   
day.  
  
Havelock kept quiet, picking at his food -- he never ate much, even at   
home -- and listening to the way Lady Margolotta spoke, rather than   
what she said.  
  
There was a disturbing frankness about her. She told them exactly what   
they thought she was thinking. Havelock had seen Guild masters at   
school pull this trick on an errant student before. He'd never seen it   
done with such deftness among adults, however. Youngsters, true, none   
older than twenty, but the children of nobility, for whom suspicion and   
mistrust were natural survival traits.   
  
She was charming, and attractive enough -- indeed, there was something   
about the cut of the dress that made Havelock think unusual thoughts --   
but she didn't seem particularly interested in any of them as a snack.   
Oh, she showed interest, but not the sort Havelock was watching for.   
Although that could simply mean that she knew he was watching.   
  
No; she was intelligent, and he'd made no secret of his suspicions, but   
he could tell from the indolence in her conversation that she was not   
acting for his benefit. She didn't bother to check and see if he was   
listening, or address specifically disinterested comments to his   
neighbors.   
  
They might, if they were careful, just get out of this alive.   
  
Havelock was still quite young, and had years of education in politics   
ahead of him before he would assume the Patricianship. Despite his   
considerable intellect, it did not occur to him that she was ignoring   
his companions because her interests lay elsewhere.  
  
***  
  
DA DA DAAAAA! To Be Continued...  
  
* Or, as Igors were wont to say, the glisten**.  
  
** Well. The glithen, actually.   
  
*** There's always a Sara. Nobody really knows why. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ach, my children ov zer internet, I vos not goink to post zis tonight,  
but I hear your music, und I must obey...I'm running quickly in between  
an intense paint day (stupid, stupid lab people!) and meeting my date for   
the Joe Millionaire Season Finale party...yes, I'm just that sad, gentle   
readers. Not only going to a Joe Millionaire party, but I'm bringing a   
/date/.  
  
And by the way, writing the first scene of this chapter was the most tiring   
intellectual experience of the year to date. The problem with choosing to   
write Vetinari is, well, then you've got to think like him. And Pratchett   
does this /all the time/.   
  
I'm off for a night of mindless television. Enjoy :)  
  
A Room Vith A View  
Ch. 2  
  
Vimes's eyes narrowed. "You've met him, haven't you?"  
"Yes."  
"And taught him all he knows, right?"  
She blew smoke down her nostrils and gave him a radiant smile.  
"I'm sorry? You think /I/ taught /him/?"  
-- The Fifth Elephant  
  
After the meal, they returned to the drawing room, taking up various   
entertainments to put off the moment of going upstairs and facing   
the possibility of sleeping in the same house as an Igor.   
  
Cyril and Selachii became involved in a chess game, using a carved   
antique set that Margolotta provided; Alice and Sybil were keeping   
travel journals. Sara watched the chess game languidly, while Havelock   
watched Margolotta, under the guise of exploring the volumes in the   
bookcase.   
  
He was also calculating how long he could have toyed with Cyril before   
defeating him utterly at chess, but this did not take much thought;   
Cyril had provided endless hours of this sort of entertainment in the   
past, fumbling through the game like a wizard trying to undo a   
brassiere*. The challenge was not to defeat your opponent, which was   
easy, but confuse him into defeating himself. Perhaps when Cyril had   
beaten Selachii, in four...no, six now...all right, yes, good man, de   
Worde, only two moves to go.  
  
He wondered what it would be like to play chess with the Lady   
Margolotta. What happened if you got a vampire who was a sore loser?  
  
The chess set didn't have white pieces. They were pale wood, stained   
red.   
  
Maybe that.  
  
He applied himself, as his mother had taught him, to the intellectual   
exercise of Discovering the Levers, a game which had most put out his   
father, a rather fun-loving man who thought young Havelock ought to   
play more rugby. It wasn't that Havelock didn't enjoy rugby (though he   
didn't); it was just that he was a small, slim boy, destined to forever   
be smaller and slimmer than many of his companions, who had sacrificed   
brainpower for an absurd amount of muscle.   
  
The Assassins' guild had given Havelock all the physical strength he   
needed, as an agile climber and fighter. It had not done too terribly   
much to further his education. He'd been forced to do that himself.   
Discovering The Levers was a great help, in that regard.  
  
Give me a lever and a solid place to stand, said the philosopher   
Legibus, and I can move the world.  
  
Vetinari preferred the version he'd read in the Omnian Book of Brutha,   
which quoted a man named Simony as saying: give me a lever and a place   
to stand, and I'd smash that place like an egg.  
  
The game was quite simple. Consider what you knew about the person in   
question, and consider where and in what fashion you would apply   
pressure in a way that moved the subject in the desired direction. It   
was people -- wonderfully complicated, brutal, intelligent, reasoning   
people -- which made the game fun. People do not have one motivation at   
a time; they are constantly assaulted by their own conflicting desires   
and insecurities. So not only do you have to find the right combination   
of influences, but you must have a care not to accidentally ram one   
lever into another, snapping both off and possibly resulting in   
grievous bodily harm.   
  
What were Lady Margolotta's levers?  
  
She was a vampire. Obviously, sunlight, religious symbols -- garlic? --  
and blood.   
  
She was a noble woman. She almost surely subscribed to the Assassins'   
Guild credo that required the victim to be given a fighting chance.   
  
She liked her books; they were well-used, and had nameplates in. She   
had suggested, and was now watching, the chess game. Young men?  
  
Of course, young men. She's a vampire.   
  
She's a woman.   
  
Yes. Indubitably, a woman.   
  
So, if Sybil held up her end of the bargain, the ladies need not worry.  
That was something.   
  
Vetinari allowed himself the brief luxury of pleasure in the thought of  
Cyril de Worde and Charles Selachii, killed by a vampire. Alas, however,   
though he was an Assassin, he was averse to unnecessary death, and he   
was responsible for these people.   
  
Another short pleasure, in the rebellious thought. Why must I be   
responsible? Why does it fall to me?  
  
Because you're competent, of course, came the immediate reprimand.  
  
And that was the end of that.   
  
He caught Margolotta looking at him, and nodded at her, over the book.  
Cyril hadn't yet noticed that he was two moves away from checkmate.   
  
"You are a great reader, Mister Vetinari?" she asked. "I shall send a   
book onvard vith you. No, it is my pleasure; books should be shared.   
But you must let me szelect vhich von you take."  
  
"I would not dream of taking anything more from you, your Ladyship," he   
said shortly. "The meal and shelter are quite enough of a debt."  
  
Lady Margolotta drew closer. Attuned, as Assassins were, to the   
different shades of the dark spectrum, he could see red highlights in   
her black hair.  
  
"Zer payment need not be prompt," she said, quietly. Havelock felt the   
book pulled from his nerveless fingers. He had never been so close to a   
woman so enthralling.   
  
A glamour. It must be. But that was faeries, wasn't it?   
  
Did it matter? She was doing it to everyone. As long as he kept his wits   
about him, he'd be fine.  
  
"And of course, it is not always odious, repaying a debt."  
  
Find the levers, he thought frantically. Find the levers --   
  
"Indeed. There is a satisfaction in having a clean slate," he heard   
himself say. "To go on one's way with the knowledge that one has done  
all the good one can do."  
  
Margolotta looked at him in surprise. "Is zat so? I had no idea   
Ankh-Morpork raised such virtuous young men."  
  
"Well, there is virtue, and there is honesty. The two are sometimes   
mutually exclusive, I've found. Which do you favor, Ladyship?"  
  
Now she was outright shocked, and a little inner Havelock, the one who  
felt everything that a Vetinari didn't show outwardly, grinned.  
  
"I favor truth, in votever light you may see it," she said slowly.  
  
Havelock Vetinari, 1; Her Ladyship has yet to score.   
  
"Ah yes. Subjectivity. Cyril's very interested in truth, aren't you,  
Cyril?" he asked. Cyril held up a finger, finally checkmated Selachii,   
and turned in his seat.   
  
"I'm a student of truth," Cyril said. "I don't believe in lies. Even   
the sort we tell every day -- you know, the harmless ones."  
  
"Telling your aunt how much you like the birthday present," Havelock   
prompted.  
  
"Yes. Or making up excuses. That's even worse, you see. Because it's   
trying to make lies interesting. A lie can run round the world before   
the truth has got its boots on, you know," he added. Selachii rolled his  
eyes, and began re-setting the chessboard. "I believe that humanity  
can only advance if the utmost truth is told on every occasion."  
  
"Vell, zere are of course those of us who believe humanity's advancement  
may not be all it's cracked up to be," Margolotta said. Cyril stared   
at her.  
  
Havelock Vetinari, 2, Ladyship 0; a brilliant stroke, bringing a   
civilian into the game like that. The lad's in good form.   
  
Don't get cocky, Havelock.  
  
"Sybil, what do you think?" Havelock asked. Sybil looked up from her   
journal.  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Truth."  
  
"Dragons," she said succinctly. Everyone looked at her.   
  
"Dragons, Sybil?" Cyril asked.  
  
"Yes. When you breed for show quality in dragons, you see, you can't  
be concerned about everything. You have to go slowly. You breed out a   
tendency towards floppy ears, and then you breed out the, well, the   
nerves -- otherwise they explode all the time. Truth's like dragons.   
You can't force all of it all at once, or it just explodes."  
  
"Bang," said Havelock gravely. "Do you agree, ladyship?"  
  
"I'm afraid I'm not very partial to dragons," Margolotta said. She gave   
him a sharklike smile.  
  
Hm. The judges say it's fair. Havelock Vetinari, 2; Lady Margolotta, 1.   
  
"No, they're thin-blooded, aren't they?" Havelock asked. Rebound; the   
score is 3 to 1.   
  
This was better than creaming Cyril at chess. Loads better.   
  
He was moving more carefully now, because Margolotta was beginning to   
get lost in the conversation; she didn't understand what he was doing,   
and when that happens, people tend to lash out. Find the lever.  
  
"A moot point, I suppose, at any rate," he continued. If he could scare   
her into leaving them alone, it would be better for all concerned. "At   
least when speaking of debt. Cyril and Charlie and I, you know,   
graduated from a school whose motto is 'No death without payment'. Very   
big on keeping ledgers, the Assassins."  
  
"Not much on ethics, though," Cyril agreed. Aha, and the civilian takes   
the field for himself. That was almost a point for you, Cyril. Good   
lad.  
  
"No. But then, ethics are not traditionally part of the worries of the   
ruling class. After all, if we do it, it must be all right. Chess,   
Cyril?" he asked. Cyril yawned.  
  
"No thanks, Havelock, we're too evenly matched. It always takes hours   
to play. I'm for bed."  
  
The others began to make their excuses as well, and Havelock followed   
Cyril and Selachii up a creaking set of stairs, to a tower with a   
rimwards view of the land below Uberwald. Igor'd left a candle in his   
room.   
  
And the competition is called to a halt on account of darkness. Ball   
still in play; it's still anybody's game, Ladyship...  
  
He did some few small chores, and then composed himself to read; he   
customarily retired later than the others. His trunk had been left   
at the foot of the rather large, ornate, nightmarishly decorated bed,   
and before he moved it, he retrieved his own book. It wasn't as   
expensive as some of Lady Margolotta's, but it was newer. 'Thoughts   
Upon Quite Nearly Everything' by Leonard da Quirm. Vetinari thought   
he would like to meet Leonard, someday.   
  
He'd broken off a spar from the inside of his trunk, and now laid it   
on the table where he was reading.  
  
Sometimes a lever is nothing more than a sharp bit of wood.  
  
***  
  
It was two hours later, nearing midnight, when Havelock looked up from  
his book. There was a quiet scratching at the window, and a mild curse.  
He smiled.  
  
Ten minutes afterward, the candle blew out, and one of the wooden   
panels behind the tapestries which covered the walls gave a very   
suspicious thump. He had matches in his trunk, but he might as well   
try to sleep; he marked his place, closed the book, and crossed to   
the bed. He'd barely settled himself on it when there was a noise like  
a loose guitar string being plucked, or possibly a spring going awry  
somewhere in some complicated mechanism.  
  
Finally, there was a knock at the door. He sat up, and tilted his   
head.  
  
"Come in," he said.   
  
Margolotta opened the door. She was slightly damp; otherwise she seemed  
perfectly at ease, though he noted a trace of dust on the hem of her  
dress.   
  
"Zis is not according to zer vay things are done," she said, mildly.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm foreign, and we seem to have come to a cultural   
crossroads," he answered. "In the big city, your Ladyship, a gentleman  
locks his window before he goes to bed at night."  
  
"There vas no lock on zer vindow."  
  
"But there is now," said Havelock. "And my trunk, you will notice, I've  
stored it under the bed. Unfortunately on top of the trap-door, but   
I'm sure those things aren't in use anymore."  
  
"You...you barbarian Morporkian!" snarled Margolotta.  
  
"Ladyship, please. My companions are asleep nearby, and I'm sure I   
wouldn't want them to think I had a woman in my room."  
  
"They don't think at all," she snapped.  
  
"Quite. I notice their windows are unlocked, their secret-corridor   
entrances un-barred by heavy writing desks. Of course, both men   
will wake tomorrow morning rather surprised to find cloves of garlic  
in their bedclothes -- it's a little trick of mine."  
  
"You're not supposed to reason about it," she said. "It vouldn't kill  
you to show a little villing."  
  
"If by 'willing' you mean 'neck', then I beg to differ."  
  
"How old are you, Mister Vetinari?" she asked suddenly. He looked at   
her.  
  
"How old are /you/?"  
  
"Old enough to know how zer game is played," answered Margolotta.  
  
"Aha, but are we playing the same game, Ladyship? I'm playing the one  
where I prevent you from snacking upon my traveling companions. What   
game are you playing?"  
  
She set her jaw. He nodded.  
  
"I'm nineteen. And it's /Lord/ Vetinari."  
  
"So young, to be so vorld-veary," she said.   
  
Hmmm. Apparently the Ladyship has a secret weapon. The score is three  
to two, with six hours left before dawn.  
  
"I don't think I've seen enough of the world to be weary of it," said  
Havelock cautiously. "Though I must say the bits I /have/ seen thus   
far -- "  
  
"I haff been under zer impression that things vere not as they are,"  
Margolotta continued. "I don't normally get anyvone bright enough to   
outsmart me, even vhen they think they vant to."  
  
"The bright ones, Ladyship, know how to repair a carriage wheel -- "  
  
He stopped, because she'd held up a hand, and waved it theatrically;  
a spanner appeared in it. She tossed it on the bed.  
  
"I could have sent you packink," she said. "Igor could easily repair  
zer carriage. But I thought you vere vone of zer...curious."  
  
"Curious."  
  
"Oh, ve get them all the time. They practically have to back up and run  
over zer pothole three or four times to break down. then zer handsome   
man comes up to zer castle, and ve have our little game. I get vot I   
vant, and the others have an interesting sztory to tell, and possibly  
a fun scar."  
  
"People /expect/ this?" Havelock asked. When he was older and wiser,  
he would look back on this exact moment and, if not laugh, then be   
really quite amused.  
  
"Yes, yes. But I can see I haff mistaken the case." She moved closer,  
and snapped her fingers. The candle flared to life. "You vould be a   
match for even a very determined predator, Lord Vetinari."  
  
Havelock felt light-headed. People did this for fun? Trooped through  
the rain for the chance to be vampire-bait?   
  
She really was a very beautiful woman.   
  
"I think ve could teach each other qvite a lot," Lady Margolotta   
said. "Nineteen, my vord. You vill be an interesting man."  
  
Ladyship scores! Tie game --   
  
Havelock bridled silently. It wasn't as though he was completely a   
babe in the woods. He was a qualified Assassin who'd fought in the   
rebellion not four years ago, and -- well, it was true that   
technically he'd never had what you might call /romance/ in his   
life, he was well-versed in the various facades of it required of one   
by society.   
  
"Were you an interesting woman?" he asked, and saw his bolt hit home.   
Four to three, but the edge was slipping now.  
  
"Vhat I vas does not concern us. Ve are discussing vot ve are. How did   
you gain so much power over your companions? And myself? I vant to   
know. I have never seen anyzing like zat."  
  
He couldn't help himself; it was born-in, this thing. "Power? Any thug   
has power." He waved a hand, demonstrating with long, pale, precise   
fingers. "Power is never in short supply. If you don't have it, you can   
hire it. I closed up all your options, and forced you to knock on my   
door. That made this my room, and you a visitor here only by my   
permission. That's not power; it's control."  
  
She regarded him for a moment; she appeared to be thinking entirely  
new thoughts, which he imagined for a vampire was rather unusual.  
  
"And vot vould it take to lose zat fine sense of control, Lord   
Havelock Vetinari?" she asked.  
  
"More than you can provide, I'm afraid," he answered, with all the  
arrogance of the young.  
  
"Is it so?" said Margolotta. "Are you szure?"  
  
Her dress slipped from her shoulders, seemingly of its own accord. It   
had clung to her hips, but it did not stop now when it reached them.  
  
Ah yes, said a small, detached voice inside him, while the rest of his   
brain was busily crossing its signals. Aunt told you about this. It's   
the one thing a woman almost always has over a man, if she chooses to  
use it.  
  
Score's tied again. The lad's making a valiant effort...  
  
It was weakness, he knew that, he understood that; but in typical  
Vetinari fashion, he embraced the weakness, made it his own, and gained   
some little modicum of control back with it.  
  
"I think," he said, as she moved closer to the bed, "You've learned your   
first lesson, Ladyship."  
  
***  
  
Hmmm...and now what? More to come...  
* Someone else's, of course. And not that a wizard would do, or   
rather undo, that sort of thing; everyone knew that wizards were   
celibate. My word, yes. 


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, I was going to wait with this until I had done, you know,  
my work and such, and recovered from the terrible aftermath of the   
Joe Millionaire party, where machismo met good sense in a fight to the   
death (unfortunately, mine).   
  
But, while I can't admit that Ysabet in screaming hysterics wouldn't be   
mildly entertaining, I am a merciful man, gentle readers, and so I post.   
  
I hope you enjoy.  
  
There's one more chapter to come after this one...  
A Room Vith A View   
Ch. 3  
  
And then you found that what you really wanted was power, and there   
were much politer ways of getting it. And then you realized that power   
was a bauble. Any thug had power. The true prize was control. Lord   
Vetinari knew that. When heavy weights were balanced on the scales,   
the trick was to know where to place your thumb.  
And all control started with the self.  
-- The Fifth Elephant  
  
Charlie Selachii was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an observant  
man, but even he couldn't help notice that Lady Margolotta had a   
particular affinity for thick, dark curtains. None of the windows in   
the dining room were open enough to let more than a sliver of light in,   
and it was obvious that Igor was well-used to the situation.  
  
"I say, couldn't we have some light in here?" he asked, as Igor wheeled  
several covered dishes into the room. "I think it's probably a nice  
day out..."  
  
"Mithtreth doethn't believe in thunlight in the morning. Bad for the   
eyeth," Igor replied. "Will thur have thautageth?"  
  
Selachii wiped his cheek. "Eggs for me, thank you. Good morning, Cyril!"  
  
"Morning, Selachii," came Cyril's surly reply. He was not a morning   
person. "Is it me, or are the Uberwaldean beds -- "  
  
"Carved by a mad cuckoo-clock maker? I think so."  
  
"Soft beds," sniffed Cyril. "Soft life, up here in the mountains.   
Wouldn't last five minutes in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
Sybil, who had quietly accepted a plateful of sausages from Igor,   
noted to herself that there were several areas of Ankh-Morpork where  
Cyril would not have a terrifically long life-expectancy, either. Alice  
seemed to be thinking the same thing. Sara was staring vacantly at a   
point on the wall while she ate; Sara was also not a morning person.  
  
Havelock was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Good morning, ladies, gentlemen. I hope your night vos restful," said   
Lady Margolotta, appearing in the doorway.  
  
"The view was..." Sybil pondered how to put it. "There was an awful lot  
of it," she said finally.   
  
"Yes, von of the advantages of livink on a cliff," Margolotta said   
graciously. "I'm afraid I have already eaten, but I do hope you vill   
enjoy your breakfast. I shall see you in the drawing room after   
breakfast, and ve can arrange for the carriage to take you into Bonk."  
  
"Here, do you know where Havelock's got to?" Selachii called after her.   
She stopped in the doorway.  
  
"Perhaps he is sleepink in," she said, and vanished into the hallway's   
shadows.  
  
"Havelock never sleeps in," Selachii said thoughtfully.  
  
"Shouldn't think he ever /sleeps/," Cyril added.   
  
"Must be the soft Uberwaldean beds," Sybil murmured. Alice shot her a   
grin.   
  
"Does it occur to you, Cyril, that Havelock's a bit of a nut job?"   
Selachii asked. Cyril snorted.  
  
"I wouldn't call him a nut job. That would be passing up the perfect   
opportunity to use the phrase 'marbles-rolling bonkers'."   
  
"I don't think he's insane," Alice said stoutly.   
  
"You wouldn't," Selachii said nastily.  
  
"Now then," Sybil murmured, in gentle remonstration.   
  
***  
  
Havelock was not sleeping in; Havelock had slept very little, the   
night before, even without Margolotta's...distractions. At sunrise,   
he'd left the castle, and walked out to see the countryside. What   
he saw was, mainly, vertical.  
  
He'd always been good at climbing. It was the one thing at the Guild   
that he'd truly been passionate about, the one thing where he'd taken  
his masters seriously and not simply paid lip service while going   
about the business of learning more on their subjects than they would  
ever know.   
  
Now he was putting his education to work. True, he'd been an urban  
edificeer, but really, was there that much difference between the   
dissolving brickwork of the Tower of Art and the tattery cliffs of   
Uberwald?  
  
Thin, deft fingers hooked themselves around a rock, and he pulled   
himself up, legs scrambling for purchase on the sheer cliff. There was   
a ledge, here; you could see almost all the way to Ankh-Morpork. All   
you had to do was follow the roads which, obeying the landscape, began  
to distort into straight, direct lines about twenty miles outside the   
city.   
  
He put his arms around his legs and sat, looking and thinking.  
  
Margolotta was a vampire. Vampires adhered to tradition. She'd made   
that clear last night. It was expected, in Uberwald, that certain  
traditions be upheld. Havelock was all in favor of tradition if it   
contributed to the stability of life; this was simply a silly way to   
pass the years, playing tourist attraction to curious lads like himself  
from Ankh-Morpork.  
  
Margolotta told him he was different. He was keenly, bitterly aware of  
that. He didn't need telling. She'd also told him he was the cleverest  
man she'd met in centuries, which was something of a compliment, but   
Havelock was wary of compliments.   
  
Clever. Hah. Clever got you put in charge of five other brats on a   
trip you didn't want to take, away from the city you loved and missed,  
so that you could be seduced by a vampiress who thought you were only  
in it for the thrill in the first place.   
  
She'd been curious, though. About what he thought. He couldn't remember  
the last time anyone gave two shillings for what Havelock Vetinari  
thought. Possibly because what he thought would send most people   
screaming for the comfort of drunken unconsciousness, but that was  
neither here nor there.  
  
Margolotta was worth spending time on. She fascinated him. A woman  
like her ought to be able to break free of tradition. With a little   
tutelage, she could rule this part of Uberwald.   
  
Oh, how arrogant. He was nineteen, what could he have learned in   
nineteen years that she hadn't learned in two hundred?  
  
A lot, apparently, said a dark little voice inside him. Although he   
didn't know it yet, it was the voice of the man he was going to be,   
the Patrician, and it was already growing. He'd learned to listen to   
it. It was arrogant and manipulative and never, ever wrong.   
  
He could stay here. Margolotta was worth exploration. It would break   
up the monotony of the trip, and distract him from his companions. He   
could stay here with her, and they could pick him up on their way out  
of Bonk. He decided he could live without meeting Serafine von   
Uberwald and her husband.  
  
Perhaps, he thought idly, remembering the evening before, Margolotta  
could teach him a few things, too. Wasn't it one of the first   
Patricians who'd said 'I am always ready to learn, although I do  
not always like being taught'?*  
  
His lips curled upward. Some things he enjoyed being taught.  
  
Most of the common-wisdom that Havelock had learned in life -- it   
won't get better if you pick it, a stitch in time saves nine, or   
the ever popular 'because' -- he'd picked up at the guild, where he'd  
spent three-quarters of his life. The History Master had been fond of   
a phrase about this kind of thing: All we can do is sing as we go.   
  
About time he learned how to sing, he supposed.   
  
He could see the others, trooping out to a waiting coach, with Igor  
perched on top. Margolotta wouldn't see them off, of course. Not   
in the daylight.   
  
He dropped down over the edge of the cliff, and began the descent   
back to the castle.  
  
***  
  
"You're what?" Cyril asked, blinking in the early morning sunlight.  
Havelock flicked the last little speck of evidence of his climbing   
expedition off of his sleeve.  
  
"I'm not going to Bonk. I'm going to stay here for a few days," he   
said, his icy blue eyes daring any of them to object. "Lady Margolotta  
has an interesting library, and I'd like to learn more about the   
castle."  
  
"Library," Cyril repeated, in a tone so expressionless that it went  
through blank implication and out the other side into innuendo. "Oh,   
of course, the /library/."  
  
"You've got to pass by Ladyship's castle on your way out of Bonk at  
any rate. You can pick me up then. It's not as though I'm the   
chaperone," he added, more for his own reassurance than the others'.  
He was not afraid of staying at the castle, but he did worry that  
Selachii might inadvertently get himself killed in Bonk -- possibly by  
the Baron, who did enjoy playing with his food -- and then Aunt would  
have Words on the subject with him.  
  
"But you'll miss all the sights," Alice pointed out. "We're going to  
go to the embassy, and the Chocolate Museum, and meet the Baron -- "  
  
"Sounds tiring," Havelock said with a small smile. "I feel I need   
a...a break from all this touristing."  
  
The other five exchanged worried looks. Havelock had never taken a   
break in his life.   
  
"Now look here, Vetinari, I /am/ the chaperone, and I say you've got   
to come along," said Selachii. "I'm not leaving you in some stranger's  
castle to make a fool of yourself."  
  
"A fool of myself?" Havelock asked, raising one eyebrow. "How, pray?"  
  
"Well, it's obvious why you're staying!"   
  
"The library? I hardly see how sitting and reading quietly would make  
me any more a fool than tromping around some back-country village in  
the hills. Well, I admit, it won't be all reading. I may play a game of  
chess, if I can stand the excitement."  
  
"Your aunt'll hold me responsible if anything happens to you," Selachii  
said, as a last desperate appeal.  
  
"Oh, Aunt knows better than to hold you responsible for anything,"  
Havelock replied sweetly. His point flew over every single head**, as  
he'd intended. "My mind is made up, Charlie. I shall see you in a week.  
Enjoy yourselves."  
  
And with a bow, he began to walk back towards the house. Cyril and   
Selachii started after him, but didn't go far.  
  
"Let him go, tiresome boy," he heard Sara say. ""He'll only sulk if   
you make him come along, Charlie."   
  
No, Havelock thought, You would sulk if you were forced to, but I   
wouldn't. And that's the difference between you and I, Sara Selachii.  
  
Margolotta was in the garden when he found her. Not the outside   
garden, of course, which was somewhat overgrown, but the garden in   
the cool, damp basement, where she was growing Black Scolpani in a   
dark-room and various nocturnal plants in a dim one. Pure, glowing   
white blossoms bloomed in the darkness. There was only one area   
that could be seen clearly; a shaft of sunlight fell into one of  
the planter boxes from a hole in the stone ceiling. A carefully   
cultivated red tulip grew in the little illuminated box.  
  
Margolotta had changed out of the just-let-me-see-your-neck   
evening-wear, and into an old tatty jumper and dungarees. She had   
gardening gloves on, and, ironically, a sun-hat.   
  
"What are they called?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. She   
froze, her back to him, in the process of tending one of the plants.  
  
"I thought you vould go vith the others," she said.  
  
"That's a funny name for a flower."  
  
"Szo you are stayink?" she asked, turning and rising. She held one  
of the white flowers in her hand.  
  
"For a little while. I thought we could be...mutually informative  
to each other."  
  
"You zink you have a lot to teach me."  
  
"I think we have a lot to teach each other. Don't you? I could name  
a few places to start."  
  
"Oh yes?"  
  
"Sara Selachii just tried to shame me into going along with them to  
Bonk, to see some ridiculous museum. But because she aimed for my   
pride -- "  
  
"And you have no pride?"  
  
"Aha, you see? I have plenty of pride. I have reason to be proud.  
But I control it, rather than letting it control me. The trick is   
not to rid yourself of bad habits. Bad habits can be quite useful,   
but -- " he had to stop talking; she'd kissed him, and it's  
difficult to talk into someone else's mouth.  
  
"And vot do I have to teach you, Havelock?" she asked, when she was  
finished. He tried to catch his breath.  
  
"That'd be a good start," he managed. She laughed, and handed him  
the flower. "Teach me about tradition, Margolotta."  
  
"Vot vould you vant to know about that?"  
  
"How to use it. How to shape it. How it becomes law. Why it's been  
allowed to rule Uberwald for so many years. Teach me about history."  
  
"Hah!"  
  
"Teach me how history changes things. It's difficult to learn, when  
you've got less than two decades to fall back on."  
  
"Ah yes. I szee," she said. "Vell, don't just sztand there. There's  
spare gloves in the corner box. Ve vill work as ve talk."  
  
He nodded, and set the brilliant white blossom on the soil, gently.  
  
***  
  
Extracts:   
The Patrician's Papers, by Havelock Vetinari, published postumously.   
Chapter Two: Dialogues  
  
Editor's note: The contents of chapter two make up apparent dialogues  
between a young Havelock Vetinari and an older mentor of some kind.   
Although scholarly research suggests that this may have been a woman   
from Uberwald with whom Lord Vetinari had an affair -- possibly the   
'Dark Lady' mentioned in the dedication -- theories abound as to her   
identity. It is also a widely-held belief that the dialogues are   
nothing more than a literary device, intended to educate the reader   
through debate.   
  
Although every other aspect of the manuscript was perfectly edited for  
publishing, it is obvious that chapter two was only hesitantly included,  
and has not been thoroughly polished. We can only provide conjecture as  
to why...  
  
***  
  
First Extract: From 'Dialogue Upon Society'  
  
Explain to me manners. What are they?  
  
The social conventions ve follow so that ve can communicate. A structure  
of rituals, yes? Things vhich are expected.  
  
Things without which we are not admitted into polite society.  
  
Vhich is vhere everything vorth doing gets done. Szo control must be   
relinquished, to some extent.  
  
Yes, but not to any one person. To a social ideal. One must never let   
oneself be manipulated by what another person thinks of one's manners.  
Therefore, one must always be better mannered than those one interacts  
with.   
  
Is that really possible, Havelock?  
  
No, of course not. Achieve perfect manners and we would cease to be human.  
Plus it would be terribly boring, I imagine.  
  
Rudeness is a human condition?  
  
It is the first human condition. To be rude is to behave as if one was   
untutored by society. From the Latatian rudis, unwrought, uncivilized.   
Rudeness is the only natural state. But we do not live naturally. We are   
tutored by society, whether we like it or not.  
  
Oh?  
  
Well, do you live in a tree and eat only fruit and raw meat?  
  
No...  
  
And I do not possess a tail. But to return to the matter at hand.   
It is possible to make the attempt, or to give the impression, of better  
manners. My companions know this. They act as though they are never  
wrong, and lo and behold, they never are.  
  
At leaszt in polite society.  
  
Yes. If they were to descend to street level, things might perhaps be  
different. But they aren't.   
  
Ve must never deal vith things except as they are?  
  
Yes.   
  
***  
  
Second Extract: From 'Dialogue upon Desire'  
  
Vot is it that people really vant, Havelock?  
  
If I knew the answer to that, I could rule the world.  
  
Think about it.  
  
Men or women?  
  
Both.  
  
Sex?  
  
That is a young man's answer. Other than that?  
  
Depends on which people.   
  
Not as much as you vould think. Consider vhat social institution has  
survived longest. Not manners. Before manners. At some point between  
descending from zer trees and livink in draughty castles on distant  
cliffs.  
  
I don't know.   
  
Vhen you do know, you vill never vant for purpose. Vhen people look  
for a leader, vhat does he promise them?  
  
A new regime.   
  
Vhy do they vant a new regime?  
  
Because the old one is wrong.   
  
Vhy?  
  
Unexpected things happen. Things are never safe.  
  
They are unstable.  
  
Yes. Oh. /Oh/...  
  
You see it now?  
  
Tradition. Tradition is what people want. Of course. Of /course/.   
That's why Uberwald never changes. Too much tradition. And Ankh-Morpork   
lost its tradition when the king lost his head --   
  
They think they vant good government and justice for all, yet vhat is   
it they really crave, deep in their hearts?   
  
Only that things go on as normal and tomorrow is pretty much like   
today.  
  
Good boy.  
  
***  
* Lord Winstan Fabbergat, who learned quite quickly that it doesn't  
pay to ignore current events, and was taught a new appreciation of  
the afterlife.  
** Except maybe Igor's, and then only because of the magnetic metal   
plate in his. 


	4. Chapter 4

A Room Vith A View  
Ch. 4  
  
It'll end in trouble, my lord,' said Ridcully. He'd found it a good   
general comment in practically any debate. Besides, it was so often   
true.  
Lord Vetinari sighed. "In my experience, practically everything does,"   
he said. "That is the nature of things. All we can do is sing as we   
go."  
--The Truth  
Lady Margolotta didn't have a bed. She had a coffin. It was a nicely-  
padded coffin with the finest silk lining that money could buy, but it   
was still a coffin, and it gave Havelock nerves. So they'd agreed that   
he ought to stay in the high guest room, although he took the lock off   
the window and unbarred the secret entrance. Margolotta still came in   
that way, for the look of the thing, but it was acknowledged that this   
wasn't, strictly speaking, necessary.  
  
Now he lay, staring up at the terrifyingly fancy canopy, arms behind   
his head, once again...thinking.  
  
Margolotta had asked him about that. She'd caught him staring off into   
space, waiting for her to make a move in the chess game that'd been   
going on for three days now, between meals and other activities. She'd   
asked him why he spent so much time inside his own head. Because there   
was so much to think about, he'd answered, and she'd seemed satisfied.   
  
He hadn't been. Of all the questions she'd asked him -- both as student   
and teacher -- in the days since his companions left for Bonk, that one   
bothered him the most. Obviously not everyone thought like him. As far   
as he could tell, nobody did. But surely there were others who   
preferred thoughts to mindless chatter? Margolotta seemed to. This da   
Quirm fellow, now, he must think a mile a minute. The wizards, too,   
they spent all their time in the University, that must inspire   
thought.*  
  
The point was, if you stopped thinking, you got into trouble. If you   
weren't one step ahead of the crowd, what good were you?  
  
It was all right for Selachii and Cyril and Sara and Alice and Sybil   
not to think, because they seemed to amble through life never really   
causing trouble, or getting into it, or having to get others out of it.   
They were constantly on the knife's edge of chaos, as was indeed the   
entire city of Ankh-Morpork, but it didn't seem to /matter/ to them.   
  
It mattered to Havelock. Perhaps because he saw how easily one little   
shove could knock everything over. Or perhaps because he had a mind   
that was always hunting for that little shove, a mind that said it   
would be so easy to say /this/ and do /this/ and everything will be at   
your feet.  
  
/If I knew the answer to that question, Margolotta, I could rule the   
world./  
  
And she'd /told/ him! What kind of fool --   
  
Not a fool. No. She was many things, but not a fool.  
  
Igor'd gone into town today. He'd asked about the others. They were   
nearly done. They'd be here in a few hours to pick him up, and then   
the newly rented carriage would take them, and him, down past   
Borogravia and into the valley that led to Genua, where his aunt was   
waiting for them.   
  
It's too soon. I'm not done yet.   
  
And then a thought so shocking that he froze.   
  
I don't want to leave.  
  
Not leave Uberwald? Not go back to Ankh-Morpork? He couldn't remember a   
time when he'd thought of the city as anything other than his home. All   
through the tour, which was a good two months already, he'd thought   
with longing of going home. He had learned a great deal and seen at   
least four of the eight wonders of the Disc, but the whole time, while   
he baited Cyril and ignored Alice and conspired with Sybil, he'd been  
counting the hours until they were back in Ankh-Morpork.   
  
He slid out of bed, carefully, and glanced back to make sure he hadn't  
woken Margolotta. She'd be up soon enough anyway.   
  
Trousers...shirt...cuff-links...  
  
He wished, not for the first time, that there was one single mirror in  
this blasted castle. He had no idea if he was shaving his entire face or  
just bits of it. He sighed, and ambled down to the drawing room.  
  
It was his move at the chessboard. He'd spent the first day -- well,   
night, really, since Margolotta slept when the daylight was strongest --   
the first night of the game testing, circling, trying to understand her   
strategies. He didn't realize until he was almost asleep that night --   
day -- that she was doing the same.   
  
She was a match for him. It was unprecedented in his experience.  
  
Now he picked up one of the bishops and considered it. He liked bishops.  
They moved obliquely. They had subtlety. Most people, when they look at  
a checkered board, can only think in straight lines -- up, down, left,  
right. They tend to forget about bishops.  
  
He touched the square where the bishop had been, and drew a diagonal  
up the board to one of Margolotta's knights. The bishop clicked when he  
set it down.  
  
He left it a square away from taking the other piece. Sometimes it is   
better to show what you could have done, than to actually do it.   
  
Margolotta would notice he'd moved. She always did.  
  
"I cannot bear chess before breakvast."  
  
He blinked. How long had he been standing at the chess board?  
  
Margolotta was standing behind one of the low couches, a wine-glass in  
her hand. It was tacitly understood that Havelock, being her companion,  
was not an entree, and so she'd resorted to other methods that he   
didn't inquire too deeply about.   
  
"Hunger makes you sharp," he said.  
  
"Assassins' Guild saying?"  
  
"Their excuse for small portions in the dining hall."  
  
She came to look at the chess-board, and laughed.  
  
"Very good, Havelock. I like that. It has sztyle."  
  
"We won't finish the game."  
  
"Oh no?"  
  
"I'm leaving in a few hours. Selachii and the rest are coming to get me."  
  
"Sztay here. At least until the game is finished."  
  
He felt her hands on his shoulders, her cheek between his shoulderblades.   
  
"You haven't taught me everything you know," she said quietly.  
  
"Neither have you."  
  
"Pretty vell nearly." He let himself be turned to face her. "Stay until   
zer game is done. You can follow your friends in a veek or two."  
  
"It wouldn't be fair."  
  
"To whom?"  
  
"Either of us. I'd play for a draw."  
  
"Vould that be so bad?"  
  
"I never play for draws, Margolotta. If I don't leave now, I won't ever.   
I have to leave. I wouldn't be happy like this. You wouldn't be happy   
with me."  
  
Margolotta laughed, but she was nervous now. "Vhy? Vhy vouldn't you be   
happy?"  
  
"The same reason I couldn't have let you in through the window on the   
first night we came here. I can't respect tradition, not when it's like   
this."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like...like an excuse for not doing anything! Don't you see? I've been   
trying to explain it for a week."  
  
"Vell, I'm sorry if I'm being stupid," she said angrily.   
  
"Are you, Margolotta?" he asked, well aware that it was anger talking   
now and not good sense, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I don't think you   
really wanted to learn. I think you enjoy the stupid life."  
  
"/Vot/?" asked Margolotta, in a dangerously low voice.  
  
"I think you like being a...a roadside attraction!" said Havelock. "I   
think it's easy. You talk about feeding off people, making them docile,   
but it makes you tame too, doesn't it? It's the easy road. Be The   
Vampire. Embrace The Night. It's a mindless way to live, Margolotta,   
and you're smart enough to choose the better option."  
  
"Vot, like you? Bearing the veight of the Disc on my shoulders because   
I can?"  
  
"Yes! Because if we don't, who will? Uberwald's just a little   
assortment of fifedoms constantly at war with each other over who gets   
the biggest bowl of fatsup -- "  
  
"Und Ankh-Morpork is so very civilised? I hear zey have secret police,   
und political killings, und -- "  
  
"But we don't pretend that it's the right way to do it because it's the   
way things have always been done. People protest."  
  
"Until they cut out their tongues."  
  
"At least they used them. Listen to me, Margolotta! Right now I've   
been sent out of the city because it's dangerous to be a nobleman under   
Snapcase. The others have families to protect them, none of them are   
titled lords or ladies yet. My parents died when I was a very young man.  
From the moment I became Lord Vetinari it was my job to protect the city.   
Twelve years old! Twelve years old and I thought I ought to be on the   
walls, defending Ankh-Morpork against invaders. But the poison's coming   
from inside the city, and I can't defend against that. So here I am. In   
Uberwald. I know about uselessness, Margolotta, but you have power in   
this place. You could -- "  
  
"I am not villing to take that risk."  
  
"Of course not. You're not really alive."  
  
He was sorry as soon as he'd said it; the hurt that crossed her face   
was quickly hidden, but it was all too real.  
  
"Look at that, Margolotta," he said quietly. "You did make me lose   
control. Well done. I think your training is complete. You won't ever   
have the courage to use it, but at least it'll be something to think   
about on the long Uberwald nights."  
  
And he left. Out into the sunlight, where she couldn't follow. By the   
time he came back for his trunk, she was gone. Igor said she was down   
in the garden.  
  
There was a single white flower, like a delicate reproach, on the bed.  
  
When he arrived home, he found a book in his trunk, as well. A History   
of Uberwald, by Antoni Zhalien.   
  
Well, she had promised to give him a book when he left.  
  
***  
  
The next time he heard from Margolotta, it was an official document of   
congratulations; he didn't know how word had got back to Uberwald so   
quickly, but he was sure she had her sources. Everything about it was   
formalised -- the neat, copperplate writing, heavy official paper, dead   
ceremonial words. Lady Margolotta begs to congratulate his Lordship on   
his appointment to the office of Patrician of Ankh-Morpork...  
  
Even then, it meant more to him than all the letters from the guilds   
combined**. He wasn't a great man for keeping things, but he put it in   
the History of Uberwald, and it was still in his bookshelf, next to his   
desk in the Oblong Office.   
  
Now, twenty-five years later, here he was. Patrician, sitting in the   
Palace, with the power he'd talked about -- yelled about, really -- during   
the last dialogue with Margolotta.   
  
"We were all glad to see you safely back in Ankh-Morpork," he said. The  
Commander of the Watch, standing before his desk, nodded. "I understand   
things were quite...eventful, in Uberwald."  
  
"You could say that, sir," Vimes answered.  
  
"Still, you managed to come out on top, Vimes, as usual. I've ratified  
the trade agreement, and the fat should, very soon, be rolling in. Quite  
a keen negotiator, your Lady Sybil. And I hear the dwarves were most   
impressed by her operatic abilities."  
  
"She's a woman of many talents."  
  
"I agree. How is her health?"  
  
He waited to see if Vimes would catch it. Sometimes he was surprisingly  
keen. Word had got around about Sybil's pregnancy, though Vetinari was  
almost positive that she'd told Vimes, before his own sources had   
informed him of it.  
  
There was a glint in Vimes' eye. Yes, he'd caught it.  
  
"She's well. The holiday did us both good."  
  
"Excellent. Now. I assume Carrot's been briefing you on the situation  
in the city, so I shan't waste your time. I have your report on your   
Uberwaldean activities...most amusing, I'm sure. You seem to have   
single-handedly upset hundreds of years of tradition in about three  
and a half days. Even for you, Commander, that is most likely a   
record."  
  
"Couldn't speak to that, sir. I wasn't the only one playing Silly  
Buggers up there."  
  
"I'm sure you never are," Vetinari said gravely. "I think that's all,  
Commander."  
  
Vimes was almost to the door by the time Vetinari decided that yes, he  
did want to ask the question.  
  
"Vimes..."  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"I'm told you...had some dealings with the Lady Margolotta, while in the   
old country."  
  
Now Vimes smiled, a smile that Vetinari, who usually had the upper   
hand in conversations like this, had never seen before.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Vetinari waited patiently. Even a copper, when faced with such a   
suckingly silent listener, tends to want to fill the void.  
  
"She's a Black Ribboner now, sir."  
  
"How interesting." Vetinari fought another losing battle; yes,   
Margolotta was the one person who could break his famous control.   
He continued to stare at Vimes, while the young Havelock from long  
ago begged the Duke not to make him ask.  
  
"She did mention you, sir," said Vimes, finally.   
  
"Oh yes?"  
  
"Asked after your health. She said you wouldn't have sent a fool to   
Uberwald. And that politics is more interesting than blood."  
  
Vetinari nodded. "Thank you, Commander. You may go."  
  
END  
* Which just goes to show that Havelock had a lot to learn about wizards.  
  
** Even the one from the Assassins' guild, about how proud he'd made   
them all and how they hoped this would be a boon for the school, up   
Viper House! 


End file.
